Grace Dent reviews Gymkhana

When London friends spend any time abroad three things are inevitable. Firstly, their Instagram and Facebook updates will become humble-braggy to a slappable degree: ‘Beach lunch at Bondi #blessed’. Secondly, they’ll pen a nauseating travel blog claiming that soaping a baby elephant in Malawi while wearing terrible bangles has given them a more evolved sense of ‘self’. I suggest printing these blogs on to paper as the sound they make going through a shredder is wholly satisfying. Thirdly, anyone who leaves London will admit after a few weeks what they miss about London is our deep, greedy loyalty to and respect for Indian food.

And for Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Nepalese food, too, because when Londoners announce — at least four times a month — they fancy ‘a curry’, we don’t use the generic curry words out of disrespect, but instead, sheer greed. This is London, home of some of the greatest curry makers in the world, so let’s not be rash on a Friday night and rule out an entire country’s approach to simmering lamb in spices served with a delicious fresh buttery naan. Perhaps they should put a sign at Heathrow Terminal 4 arrivals for the new Indian bar and restaurant Gymkhana on Albemarle Street, because if you’ve missed butter chicken, keema naan, tikkas, kebabs and masalas, there’s no finer place to go.

I was first aware of Gymkhana — which uses seasonal British ingredients, with a focus on tandoori oven dishes — four weeks ago when my most ardent, committed foodie cohorts began talking dreamily of the tandoori guinea fowl breast with green mango chat, and the kid goat methi keema. By night, I began receiving iMessage pictures of foodies with plates of duck egg bhurji wearing the type of joyful expression one typically reserves for watching one’s first child stand up and walk. People were going for dinner and then going back for lunch the following day. Or for cocktails in Gymkhana’s intimate bar, which is a modern-day interpretation of a 17th-century East India punch house, with porcelain chequerboard floor tiles and inky blue leather ‘love booths’.

Ah, love booths. Because what says love and romance more than letting a man watch you demolish your way through an Indian menu, with half a mind to loosen your bra before the kulfi selection menu appears. Actually, I might book one of these love booths for the next time and sit in it alone.

Grace's receipt

This was either a terrific practical joke to lure me to a bad dinner, or Gymkhana was one of the greatest restaurant openings London has seen in 2013. The latter is true. I’ll talk you through my Gymkhana expedition: everything from the Gymkhana bar and Nashta menus looks extraordinary, but do have the kid goat methi, which is essentially a small serving of rich stew with miniature bread rolls, but is far greater than the sum of its parts. We shared delicately presented South Indian fried chicken wings and a dish of warm, fresh venison-filled naan with cucumber raita. The large, meaty chargrilled lasooni wild tiger prawns with red pepper chutney are incredible, but arrive as a portion of three, so be prepared with some passive-aggressive manoeuvres to win the extra one. I ate a wondrous chicken butter masala with palak paneer, with the waiter clearly noticing from my waiflike persona that I was in danger of fading away and sending us extra bread.

By this point we had so much of Gymkhana’s splendour on our table I’d had to commandeer an adjacent table for the pomegranate raita and coastal spiced okra. I’m already booked to visit Gymkhana again. Life is too damn short for special occasions.